Dear Henry,

I still blanch at any mention of the Sea of Japan
Your primetime death the tragedy that dimmed my childhood,
taught me the word injustice, and its blood-bitter taste

I’ve chosen to remember you as you were,
an uneasy leader, itchy in uniform, in charge, in decision,
hiding that big heart under your fishing vest

You had your own wobbly way of making them fall in

Your replacement, Potter, a bureaucratic wonk,
didn’t have your laugh lines, your cornball command

I’ve long-since forgiven your infidelities,
all those whippet-thin nurses with their deft hands,
And I’m sure Lorraine has too.

Sayonara.